


You Should See Me in the Rain

by antiquitea



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:55:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antiquitea/pseuds/antiquitea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon returning to America, Lewis watches the subtle changes in Dick. He doesn't like them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Should See Me in the Rain

For as long as he had known him, Dick had possessed a sort of grace that did not seem possible for anyone within the realm of reality. Lewis had originally noticed it while training at Toccoa, and was amazed that it continued on, even throughout the war and in combat; perhaps even more so amidst the firefights, the hails of bullets, the mortar shells, and the bloodshed. Having taken to stumbling drunkenly through Europe, as he did in life in so many more aspects than simply the act of putting one foot in front of the other, Lewis found himself amazed in the constant and the consistency of the grace that held its sway over Richard Winters.

It held on in dire moments of deafening noise where just one step to the right could perhaps end it all, and in the oddly quiet moments where war seemed that it just might be the furthest from his mind. Nixon recalled with stunning clarity instances when there was nothing beautiful, nothing poetic about the circumstances they had been thrust into. And yet, with a quiet elegance, there he was – unwavering and unrelenting. There were moments where he had been filthy, covered in dirt and the blood of men who he had known or not known at all. His eyes had been weary, yet bright, and what passed for a smile upon his lips was capable of lighting up the entirety of any room. A lot of the men looked up to him, admired him. Lewis was foolishly in love.

His fingers, nimble as his mannerisms, had gently coaxed Nixon out of his clothing one night in Austria, merely because he had gotten so blindingly drunk that he wasn’t capable of operating buttons. Lewis declared that he was fine and attempted to push Winters away, who told him in as serious a tone that he could manage that Lewis was pushing a coat rack and not him. Lewis allowed himself to be undressed, although he would have gladly burned his ODs then and not given a fuck for the rest of time. Dick stopped upon reaching Nixon’s undershirt and shorts, and Nixon told him not to. With grace and not a moment’s hesitation, Dick complied, and Lewis drunkenly pulled at Dick’s clothing until it wasn’t there anymore, attempting to kiss him properly but instead missing his lips by a few centimeters and kissing the corner of his mouth.

Skin on skin, warm and damp, indulging in the utterly delicious feeling that only came with his friend’s hips pressed nakedly against his own, Lewis gasped curses against Dick’s lips, while Dick whispered about sins and forgiveness. Nixon’s fingertips must have burned wherever they grazed Dick’s flesh, for the other man moaned as if he’d been injured every time he felt them. Dick seemed particularly fond of kissing, not at all minding the taste of alcohol and cigarettes that came with the territory when pressing one’s lips to Lewis’. Neither of them truly listened to the other, until they both lie on the uncomfortable twin bed, exhausted and completely spent. Dick said, “That can’t happen again.” Lewis replied with, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Lewis didn’t drink as much the following day.

Until the day that Nixon was sent home, he and Dick shared moments as they could get them, although it was never anything more than a fleeting glance or a momentary intertwining of fingers when no one was looking. Lewis returned to the States to inherit a broken home, divorce papers, and child support. When Dick’s services were finally no longer required in Europe, he returned to the States to inherit Lewis Nixon.

#

Nixon kept bottles around the house in various states – some were empty, had a shot or two left, while some were half full and half empty, or hadn’t even been opened yet. Dick tried to dispose of the empty ones as often as he could, but Lewis seemed to drink faster than he could keep up. He drank to keep the memories at bay, and leave them far away from his mind, back in places like Normandy, Eindhoven, and Landsberg where he had acquired them.

Despite earlier affirmations that what happened in Austria was not meant to happen again, and a bedroom which had become his own, Dick eventually found his way into Nixon’s bed after a month of lodging with him. The first few times it came in the middle of the night, like a child having awoken from a nightmare. Dick slipped under the covers of Lewis’ bed, didn’t ask if he could, simply did. Lewis would wrap an arm around him, pull him close, and Dick would finally fall asleep while listening to the persistent beating of Lewis’ heart. Then he stopped going to his own room, following Lewis up to bed instead when they eventually called it a night. On the fifth night of abandoning his bed for Lewis’, Dick let Lewis touch him, and he made him gasp and whimper as he had in Austria so many months previous.

With the exception of for grabbing a change of clothes, or keeping up appearances when the occasional guest (usually Lewis’ sister, Blanche) came over, Dick didn’t return to his bedroom.

#

It was in the way that he moved.

Grace found itself slowly removed from Dick’s existence, and Lewis struggled with the implications of that. He wondered if the fatigue of war, the weight that Dick had held upon his shoulders for so many years were finally picking at the already frayed edges. It was in the subtle way that he moved, in such a simple thing as walking. It was nowhere near the lumbering Lewis considered an appropriate way to get from Point A to Point B, but it was very much not the sort of way he’d become accustomed to Dick moving. His impenetrable grace was as much a part of him as his fiery red hair, which still remained as the grace slowly left.

All parts of Dick should remain intact, Lewis thought.

#

Dick lay in bed, Lewis beside him, fingertips gently tracing over scars that Dick never remembered how he obtained. His fingertips must not have burned, for Dick only sighed softly when Nixon’s touch grazed over raised, angry looking white and red marks imbedded in his flesh. It had come with the territory, and Winters wasn’t certain if they’d ever go away, or if he would wear them as reminders until the day that he died. They hadn’t hurt, he would’ve remembered them if they had hurt.

Lips replaced fingers, and they must have burned, as Dick gasped and writhed beneath him, hands tangling in Nixon’s mop of dark hair that had grown past regulation length. Wet kisses moved down the length of Dick’s torso, stopping to take inventory of those scars of varying sizes. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Lewis’ lips reached their intended goal and he took his friend’s hardened cock into his mouth.

Dick had moaned, his body shifting constantly beneath Nixon, unable to keep still for more than second. He would push Lewis away, only to pull him back again, begging him to not stop, murmuring that he’d never felt anything so amazing.

After he was spent, Winters lay unmoving on his side, looking at Lewis who felt even more naked under the scrutiny of his friend’s green eyes. Determined to not look away, Lewis starred right back at him, challenging his friend’s gaze, willing him to say whatever it was that he was thinking. Finally sighing, Dick rolled over onto his back and shifted his eyes to look toward the ceiling.

“That can’t happen again.”

“Sure.”

It didn’t.

#

Lewis sat in his study, pretending to read as he drank because Dick said that it was awful that all of those books were never opened by him. He didn’t even bother with glasses anymore, he finished the bottles too quickly to justify it, and what was the sense in creating dirty dishes. It was far too late for him to still be awake, but Dick wasn’t in bed either, he could hear him moving around upstairs.

Leaving the bottle and the book, Nixon carefully made his way up the steps, following the light to Dick’s bedroom, to find him sitting on the edge of his bed. Standing in the doorway for a moment, Lewis watched him just sit there, wringing his hands together and alternating between starring at them and starring straight ahead. Finally having enough of the silence, Lewis moved into the room and carefully sat beside him on the bed. Dick didn’t acknowledge his presence.

“What is it?” Lewis finally asked.

“I don’t know,” Winters replied.

Lewis joined him in starring at his hands, pursing his lips together. Dick had held onto his allure through training, through their years spent in tents and in Europe, and Lewis recalled the instant when he began to see it leave.

It wasn’t being home in America that was destroying Dick Winters’ elegance – it was him. Lewis felt as though he had a hand in the killing of his best friend, and was completely at a loss for how to deal with the emotions that he found caught in his throat as he tried to speak. “Maybe you should sleep in here tonight.”

“Maybe.”

He did.

Lewis felt colder than he had ever felt in Bastogne.

#

In the morning, Lewis was alone in the house. He smoked a pack of cigarettes before noon, and drank a bottle of whiskey before two o’clock. For the entirety of the day, he sat in a chair and waited, save for when he was finally able to bring himself to look in Dick’s bedroom. He hadn’t brought many possessions with him, but the dresser drawers and closet were empty.

Lewis was alone in the house the following day as well, and the day after that, and the sickening pattern continued for months before he finally realized that Dick wasn’t coming home.

#

Eventually there was a letter, but Lewis didn’t read it, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw it out either. He kept it on the dresser in what had been Dick’s bedroom, because he couldn’t stand to even look at the envelope and Dick’s neat handwriting.

There was no one around to pick up the empty bottles anymore.


End file.
